Snarkasm and Snowballs
by Ithilwen C. Malfoy
Summary: Why me, Albus? My robe is developing rising damp, and I’m standing outside on Christmas Eve watching Potter frolic happily in the snow." Severus' Christmas isn't shaping up too well...


Author: Ithilwen C. Malfoy

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: All characters and concepts belong to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Books et al. No financial gain is being made from this harmless little piece of festive fun, so don't sue me, you great Scrooge. 

Author's Note: For all you guys and dolls with a thing for all things Snapesome… Merry Christmas!

Snarkasm and Snowballs

Why me, Albus? It's cold, my robe is developing rising damp, and I'm standing outside on Christmas Eve watching Potter and his band of gormless followers frolic happily in the snow. 

It'll serve the female Weasley right if she misplaces her footing in the snow whilst gazing at him in ardent admiration. I have the utmost respect for Arthur and Molly – a formidable woman, and one whom I have found it well worth keeping on the right side of – but how on earth did they manage to produce a brood of such wholly-uninspiring offspring? An exception may be made for Bill, whom I have always begrudgingly admitted is marginally less dense than his siblings. And possibly for the twins who, despite regularly filling my dungeons with an assortment of unpleasant smells and strangely sticky substances, AND terrorising my students (though I concede that many of them may have deserved it), also spent seven years making Filch's life hell, thus earning a measure of my respect. 

Speaking of respect, something has been troubling me: It has come to my attention that there is a school of thought currently being cultivated in the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff Common Rooms that I am not the black-hearted, ugly, sarcastic bastard I have for so long striven to be. Current theory is that I am instead misunderstood, under an appearance detraction charm, and troubled by a broken heart. As much as I hate to shatter the simpletons' delusions, I am confident that by midday tomorrow, by which time Hannah Abbot will have scurried back to her friends after serving a three-hour detention with Trelawney and/or Binns, it will be absolutely clear to all concerned that misunderstood and heart-broken I may be, but that I also possess a sadistic streak a mile wide and happen to know that Binns needs guinea pigs on whom to test-run his _novum__ curriculum lectures. _

Not that the state of my social life, lack thereof, or whether or not I'd be _quite cute_ if I _started washing my hair_, is any business of the cretins I am forced to teach, or indeed my well-meaning, slow-witted colleagues. If Pomfrey thinks that getting the House Elves to leave small bottles of shampoo lying about my quarters will spur me on to new heights of personal hygiene, she is sorely mistaken. She would do well to remember that I personally brew every ointment, cough syrup and pain-relief potion she gives to her patients, and unless she wants anxious parents writing in to Albus because their children have become mysteriously purple and started singing all 38 verses of _I May Be A Tiny Charms Teacher_ _But I've Got An Enormous Wand_, she'd better not give me bath salts for Christmas.   

And speaking of Christmas, have I mentioned how bloody _pissed off I am that I'm standing here, outside in the snow, Potter-sitting on Christmas Bloody Eve._

Oh, Albus, you're going to pay for this. My list of How To Make Albus Squirm ideas is growing exponentially and no number of wards and protection charms are going to stop me this time… Oh no, this time you've gone too far. I tolerated the singing greetings cards at breakfast, I smiled gamely through the five and a half hours of charades – five and a half _bloody_ hours of my life wasted because Flitwick got over-excited whilst miming Last Tango In Paris – but this…

OOF!

"POTTER!!!" One more snowball… One more bloody snowball… "SO MUCH AS GLANCE OVER HERE AGAIN AND I'LL LET FILCH CHAIN YOU UP IN HIS OFFICE AND PLAY WITH YOU 'TIL EASTER!!!"

Right, that's it. That's bloody it. Albus, you useless old goat, you grinning, twinkling imbecile, with your ridiculous hat and your infernal afternoon tea... I'm going to make you pay. When you wake up tomorrow morning and reach inside whichever of those ridiculous stripy stockings you've strung up beside the fireplace, and all you've got for Christmas is a naked House Elf under a lust charm and with a sudden fetish for men with facial hair, let's see who's having the last laugh then. 

Merry bloody Christmas. 

~~~


End file.
